A Crime of Passion
by Deb Zorski
Summary: In the Victorian Era, homosexuality between men was illegal. When Holmes realizes this, he must keep his love for Watson hidden, or be arrested. But in a case full of gruesome murders of accused homosexuals, how long can Holmes stay silent? SLASH.
1. Chapter 1

Holmes relied on the science of deduction in every aspect of his life. It explained how he came to every one of his conclusions: following each thread until their unraveling, leaving no logical option unexplored. With all the evidence presented before him, he pieced together the details into a much larger picture.

Deduction had allowed him to analyze, within seconds, the professional and personal past of Dr. John Watson upon their first meeting. He had observed a soldier and army doctor, both shattered and strengthened by his experience in the war; a man who found himself completely alone, with a broken family and no support. It had made things easier, then, for Holmes to become that support as Watson's flatmate.

Watson's quick loyalty allowed Holmes to immediately rule out temporary flatshare arrangement. The first time Holmes had warned Watson of the danger associated with his cases, Watson had agreed in full knowledge of the extreme risk. Watson had, more than once, fired his army revolver on Holmes' behalf, more often than not saving the detective from a life-threatening situation. Flatmates became friends as a result of Watson's loyalty and trust.

When Holmes fell ill from weeks of overworking himself, or came home bleeding on the carpet from a bullet wound, Watson became caretaker. When Holmes shared his theories and wanted input, Watson became colleague. When Holmes acted morose and moody, choosing silence over conversation, Watson became deduction personified, able to crack through the detective's brooding.

The science of deduction Holmes had perfected into an art. The only problem with deduction was its lacking in answers when emotions were concerned. For a long time, Holmes had tried to turn off his emotional side, to become solely a brain meant for logic. But he was still human, and still had a heart to burn. In the realm of emotions, logical deduction was futile at best.

So he sat turning things over in his head, presented with a full set of evidence. Only this time, his case was himself: his behaviors, his thoughts, and his blasted emotions. Before, he would easily let the details of a case occupy his consciousness, occasionally having them clarified by Watson's presence. Now, he only noticed Watson's absence when he was trying to think. He felt his heart race and his chest swell with pride whenever they sat together in the sitting room, sharing a comfortable silence. He worried about Watson when he was with patients, for no logical reason at all! He ran faster during chases to protect Watson, ensuring the way was clear.

During the nights, all of Holmes' thoughts were at their worst. Wonderful dreams of him and Watson sharing a bed in the throes of passion terrified Holmes to the point of refusing to sleep at all. He stayed awake night after night, trying uselessly to deny the truth. He desperately sought out other explanations, any other train of thought he could entertain other than the obvious. But every time dawn broke over London it also broke unto his consciousness. Holmes was falling steadily in love with his best friend, but love between two men was a crime against the Crown. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, was a criminal.


	2. Chapter 2

"Holmes?" Watson asked at breakfast that morning as Holmes refused toast and hardly even sipped his tea.

"Yes, Watson?" Holmes lifted his head, eyes sparkling, willing his heart to stop pounding against his ribcage.

"Are you currently on a case?"

"No, but with any luck my boredom will lift with the arrival of a new client. Have you seen anything of interest, friend Watson?" Holmes loved nothing more than the first scent to lead him into the game.

"Not recently, I'm afraid."

"Then why do you ask?"

"Well, Holmes, quite frankly…" Watson was hesitant, suddenly studying his immaculate fingernails. "Well, I'm concerned."

"Not to worry, Watson," Holmes chuckled. "London's first-rate class of criminal never sleeps for long. Lestrade will find his officers inept as usual and come to us soon enough." Holmes lit a cigarette, holding it lightly between his fingers.

"That is good news for your inactivity, Holmes, but not for your health." Watson said matter-of-factly.

"My health? Watson, I feel fine." Holmes smiled nervously.

"You haven't slept in _weeks_. Holmes. If you have no case then what could _possibly_ be keeping you awake at night?" Watson demanded to know.

"Inspector, at _this_ hour of the morning? They've only been awake for the past ten minutes!" Mrs. Hudson's voice floated worriedly up the stairs as urgent, heavy footsteps ascended.

"The _anticipation_ of a new case, Watson. And here it is now." Holmes motioned to the door, never before so relieved to see the rat-faced Inspector.

"Two murders, within hours of one another, on opposite sides of the city." Lestrade informed as he huffed to catch his breath.

"Hardly of interest, Lestrade," Holmes dismissed nonchalantly. "It's obvious they're connected, even _you_ could have seen that."

"The bodies were dismembered and scattered throughout the city. Not haphazardly, either. It was planned." Lestrade reported grimly.

Holmes arched an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes. "How?"

"One limb from each victim placed together in certain locations. With two murders already we might have a serial killer on our hands."

"How incredibly gruesome!" Watson commented with disgust.

Lestrade looked at Holmes with a glimmer of hope. "Well?"

Holmes snubbed out his cigarette with the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Get dressed, Watson. We finally have something _exciting_ to do."


	3. Chapter 3

At each location, the evidence was the same. Rough, jagged cuts made at odd places: a foot with an ankle and part of a calf, instead of being hacked off at just the ankle. The cuts were made with a blunt edge, and sawed away while being cut, allowing for messy edges. Ironically, for such unclean cuts, there were no traces of blood at any of the sites.

"The killings are happening at remote locations with the bodies being dumped in pre-planned places," Holmes stated. "Where are the heads?"

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "Holmes, I don't think-"

"Heads, Lestrade. I'll find them even if you don't tell me."

Lestrade whistled sharply and Holmes stood from where he had been kneeling on the pavement. Another officer dumped the heads from a damp burlap bag, both of them rolling to a stop. Watson paled immediately when one stopped in front of his shoe, staring at him with empty eye sockets and a jaw barely hanging by its tendons.

"They were in the sewer along the Thames." Lestrade reported.

Holmes cleared his throat and bent down to examine the damage. The eyes were removed from both heads, and cleanly too. The jaws were mangled with a sharp knife this time, one which maneuvered through flesh and muscle to uncover the layers leading to bone. The hair on both women was matted with blood and sewage, the smell sickening Holmes.

"This explains the fate of your missing persons, Lestrade," Holmes pointed out. "But doesn't tell us much else."

"Other than the murderer-" Lestrade began.

"Murderers. At least three."

"How did you-"

"The cuts are different on the heads than the limbs, indicating a different knife. There is blood on the head and not the limbs. A murderer who cleans the limbs but not the heads is not careless so much as a separate murderer." Holmes explained.

"The other two?" Lestrade asked.

"Sidekicks. The limbs are too perfectly arranged but jaggedly cut. The cuts were quick and careless, but made with a blunt knife to cause pain. These women watched themselves get hacked to pieces before they met their end. If it was only one helper, then where's the trail of blood from so many limbs? One person did not clean all of them, not in a few hours' time. Watson, precisely how long have these women been dead?"

Watson pressed his handkerchief over his nose and mouth to suppress his urge to vomit. All his years in the war had never prepared him for this. "About 5 hours. This happened just before dawn."

"The blood would lead us to the hideout, the heads are key. The heads of the victims lead us to the head of the team.' Holmes mumbled to himself, then looked up at Lestrade. "There's nothing else?"

"No, this is all."

"Then we must wait."

"Wait!" Lestrade exclaimed. "For another murder to happen, Holmes?"

"For their husbands, Lestrade." Holmes pointed to the rings on each left hand of the severed arms. "No doubt they will come to me within a day or so."

Lestrade shook his head, motioning for his team to stop their investigations.

"And now, Watson, let us return to Baker Street and see if Mrs. Hudson can't re-warm our breakfast." Holmes suggested as Watson groaned and clutched his stomach.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thank you all for the reviews, subscriptions, and story alerts, especially those who reviewed the last chapter. I was worried the gore might turn all of you off, but how you continually surprise me._

* * *

The husbands never came because they were murdered in a similar fashion: the same gore at the mouths of the severed heads, the empty eye sockets. The only difference between the wives' bodies and their husbands was how the torsos of the men were slashed open, quite bloodily, and left halfway in the street. The sight of it had caused Watson to be physically ill on a street corner.

While Watson recovered it was Holmes who found himself feeling sick the next morning at the sight of the newspaper headline: **ACCUSED HOMOSEXUALS MURDERED BY SERIAL KILLER. LONDON'S MORALITY REJOICES!** It explained perfectly why they found both women together, and later, both men. Holmes knew the women were innocent according to Parliament's ruling, but not the men. Her Majesty Queen Victoria did not believe women could commit such immoralities, but based on the murders, Holmes knew better.

The article spoke more of the men being murdered than the women, but accused all four of homosexuality: illegal, vulgar, and ugly. The public's overwhelmingly jubilant response made Holmes' stomach drop like a stone. All of London apparently agreed with Her Majesty.

Holmes was _terrified_.

Not only did the masses of London condone the death penalty to male homosexuals, they anticipated it eagerly. They _salivated_ for it. The killings were probably made a public event. Could he be arrested and tried for even _thinking_ those thoughts?

Watson emerged from his bedroom, looking rested and back to his normal state of health, but stopped and stared at Holmes, who sat back in his chair, newspaper having drifted to the floor. Holmes' head was arched back on the headrest of the armchair, eyes shut tightly as though he were in pain, face completely blanched of any color.

"Holmes, are you quite all right?" Watson asked with concern.

"Oh, Watson," Holmes' eyes snapped open to alertness, but his voice was weak. "Just, erm, feeling a bit ill."

"I'll ring Mrs. Hudson for tea and send word to Lestrade. You'll rest for the day." Watson prescribed in a clinical manner.

"No, Watson, absolutely not. If there are any new developments-"

"They can easily be sent by messenger." Watson reasoned. "If the years in the war couldn't have prepared me for such gruesome sights, I can only imagine how they've affected you." Watson said sympathetically as he led Holmes into his own bedroom.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N:__ Incredibly proud of this. Best chapter yet._

At Watson's careful ministrations with helping Holmes into bed, Holmes willed himself to stay standing under his friend's gentle touch. The news regarding the victims, plus the dawning realization that they were now alone in his bedroom, sent Holmes into an irrepressible nervousness.

"Steady there, old fellow." Watson caught Holmes when he stumbled, practically collapsing into bed when his knees buckled underneath him. Watson was tender in having him sit on the side of the bed, quickly draping a blanket over Holmes' shaking shoulders. Holmes gripped the blanket tightly around himself, suddenly unable to stop shivering.

Watson frowned in watching the detective turn a shade paler as beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. "Stay here, alright Holmes? I'll be right back to take your temperature." Watson studied Holmes' desperate face as the detective just barely nodded. Watson smiled, patting his friend's arm reassuringly before leaving.

Once the door closed behind Watson, Holmes got to his feet and began pacing restlessly, still clutching the blanket and ordering himself to stop such foolishness. He had done nothing wrong, and so could not be arrested for any such reason. He and Watson were friends, colleagues, and flatmates; nothing more was between them. Holmes nodded in reassuring himself that he was perfectly safe.

"But the victims!" he realized aloud. What of their fate? Clearly the accusations had been kept silent until the time of their deaths, when they were finally made public knowledge. Holmes could not bear to think of what torture the four had endured. Perhaps their gruesome deaths were, in fact, a relief.

Holmes found himself shivering afresh and pacing faster. "Surely I will not suffer as they did," he said to himself, stopping in front of the mirror. He stared at his own dreadful-looking reflection: he certainly did not _appear_ to be a corrupted criminal or monstrous abomination. But his grey eyes, opened wide and pleading for forgiveness within himself, bespoke of his panic and fear at being thought of as such things.

He gathered up whatever internal strength he had and headed towards the bedroom door, ready to tell Watson he was merely shaken by the violent deaths and not to worry. But, forever in the back of his mind, Holmes panicked over the secret life he led, if only in his thoughts. And if London were to see the great detective as nothing more than a depraved criminal, then-

"Holmes!" Watson was at the door, medical bag in one hand and thermometer in the other. "How are you-"

Holmes raced up, dropping the blanket in his wake, and kissed Watson desperately in his panic. Their lips crashed against one another, hurried and rough, Watson's lips gently parted in the middle of his next word. Holmes' hands found their way to rest very gently on Watson's shoulders, which Watson allowed though the rest of his body felt stiff with shock.

The kiss only lasted for a few moments, but for Holmes it was a blissful eternity. He closed his eyes, wanting to savor every detail. In the milliseconds when he did briefly open his eyes, he saw Watson's hesitantly closing. He heard the heavy black medical bag slip quietly to the floor before he gently pulled away. Holmes looked into Watson's eyes as they were still close enough to have their noses touch, searching for some sign of Watson's reaction. Seeing only Watson's shock, Holmes took a hesitant step backward.

"Holmes," Watson began in a trembling voice, his eyes hardened in studying Holmes' face.

"Those people, the victims," Holmes explained, hoping he didn't sound as frightened as he felt. "They were accused of the same crime we are committing. They would have been put to death had they not been so brutally murdered. The men, at least, they definitely would have been killed."

"This is extremely dangerous." Watson nodded solemnly.

"I hadn't meant to involve you, Watson, please know that." Holmes begged. "I-I just panicked and I wasn't sure of what else to do. I am at such a loss for what to do, for what is right." Holmes sighed dejectedly. "Perhaps we can forget it."

"No, Holmes," Watson countered. "You know we cannot. Forgetting it would be pretending it never happened." Watson shrugged nonchalantly.

"Precisely," Holmes nodded just before looking confusedly back at Watson. "Watson, what do you mean?"

Watson smiled. "The evidence is plain, Holmes. You kissed me, and I am neither outraged nor disgusted. Shocked, yes."

Holmes' breath caught in his throat. He swallowed thickly. "And?"

"Well, there is _some_ intrigue to living in secrecy." Watson took the opportunity of a shocked, mouth-half-open Sherlock Holmes to slip the thermometer under the detective's tongue.

Holmes immediately removed it, closing the door behind Watson and leading him urgently by the wrist to sit on the bed. "Watson," he spoke carefully and in hushed tones, "do you understand the gravity of what you and I are agreeing to? Men are put to _death_ for such a thing as us!"

"I realize that Holmes, and yet here I am." Watson shrugged.

"Here you are, yes."

"Tonight," Watson rose from the bed and picked up the blanket where Holmes had dropped it, draping it around him gently. "You are quite ill. It is my sworn duty as your doctor to heal you by any means necessary." Watson took the thermometer from Holmes' grasp, brushing his fingertips against Holmes' hand.

"I am worried, Watson," Holmes admitted, "_Deeply_ worried about what I've gotten us both into."

"You shiver from fever," Watson observed, moving closer on the bed.

"Yes, let's call it that, then. Fever." Holmes agreed as Watson's hand held the thermometer in front of him. He obediently opened his mouth for Watson to obtain a reading. Watson's fingers fluttered to his wrist to check his pulse as Holmes stayed silent.

"Holmes, I am not afraid to love you in secret. I am not afraid to love you at all. For that, you must trust me." Watson removed the thermometer, shaking it out to a neutral temperature as he reported the results to Holmes. "Temperature: normal. Pulse: normal, if a little quickened for understandable reasons." Watson smiled as he saw Holmes faintly blush. "Breathing: shaky, but normal. Sherlock Holmes, lover of Dr. John Watson," Watson gently took Holmes' hand into his own, "normal."


	6. Chapter 6

Based on the placement of the severed bodies, particularly the heads, Holmes was able to predict where the next murder might take place. He and Watson crouched low in a darkened alleyway, watching the young men of London gather in a local pub. Watson's hand was at the ready, resting on his army revolver as Holmes studied the scene.

Here, under the cover of night and in such an empty neighborhood, men were free to love as they wished. Warmed by pints of ale and the promise of an evening companion, the youths walked arm in arm to the corner, separating their grip to hail a cab yet always riding together. On this quiet sidestreet, away from the main thoroughfares, they were all safe. Holmes looked over his shoulder at Watson, smiling warmly as he observed the doctor.

Watson had been watching the same two he had, a sweet smile perking up the corners of his moustache as he saw the lads link arms, one leaning to whisper something into the ear of the other. Watson's smile remained when they separated, their touch lingering until the last moment when they were forced to hail a cab home.

Holmes returned his gaze to the street, watching as an elegantly dressed young woman showed the flower in her hair to the man at the door. The guard shook his head but she tried again, offering a gold coin that shone in the lamplight. When the doorman refused a second time, a young gentleman came to her aid. He removed his calling card from his breast pocket and handed it to the man, trying to negotiate. Once the doorman pulled out a pistol, Holmes took off running faster than Watson could stop him.

"Holmes!" Watson dashed after him, dropping to the ground in defense once he heard gunfire. Looking down the street, he saw Lestrade and a few constables running to Holmes' aid.

Holmes and the doorman were in a grappling match, the offending pistol gleaming in the gutter. Holmes thought he had his opponent completely disarmed until he saw the flash of a blade. Holmes stopped only for half a second to notice it: a flat, fine, and extremely sharpened blade, most commonly used by butchers to cut thin slices of meat.

Once Watson heard Holmes' stifled cry he knew his friend had hesitated just an instant too long.

Lestrade and his officers rushed after the ruffian, tackling him to the ground and handcuffing him at once, while Watson set off at a dead-run for Holmes. The young man who had been so bold before in defending the woman had managed to catch Holmes and ease him prostrate onto the pavement, while the woman was trying to flag down a cabbie for transport to the hospital.

"Holmes!" Watson fell to his knees, doctoring instincts immediately overcoming his panic. "Holmes, can you hear me?"

"That man, Watson," Holmes smiled despite the pain. "He's the one… the one for the heads, and-" Holmes broke off into a strangled groan as Watson pressed on the wound to stop the bleeding.

"You're badly hurt. Forget the case." Watson swore under his breath as Holmes' blood gushed over his knuckles.

"Perhaps we should call a doctor," the young man offered. "Molly's trying to fetch the hospital."

"No," Holmes gasped. "No hospital."

"I _am_ his doctor." Watson informed as the bleeding started to slow down. "It is not deep enough for a hospital," Watson lied as he looked up at the lad. "However, you and your friend can get us a cab to Baker Street. Tell the driver I'll pay him three sovereigns to help us, and four if he gets us there quickly." The gentlemen nodded and went to help the woman find a willing cab.

Holmes gasped in pain, complexion paling. "Watson…"

"It's alright, Holmes, just try to stay conscious. Lestrade has the man arrested and our friends are finding us a cab home." Watson looked hopelessly into Holmes' pained eyes, glistening with tears from the sting of the wound.

"It _hurts_, Watson." Holmes winced.

"I know, Holmes, I know." Watson bent over Holmes, running his hand not pressing on the wound through the detective's hair. "We'll get you home soon enough," Watson leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on Holmes' lips, eliciting a smile from the detective. Watson quickly stood, however, when he saw Lestrade approaching.

"We've got him, " Lestrade nodded.

"Good," Holmes gasped from the ground, "It'll help us catch his two agents and-" he yelped in pain in trying to sit up. Lestrade's and Watson's hands both pressed firmly on his shoulders to lay him back down.

"You're off the case, Holmes." Lestrade said definitively.

"We're so _close_, Lestrade! This will not keep me out for long-" Holmes protested.

"Until Dr. Watson, as _your doctor_, Holmes, says it's time to return. Only then will I allow you to even _think_ of coming back." Lestrade ordered.

"The injury is serious, Holmes." Watson revealed worriedly.

"But now we know _exactly_ what the killer is capable of! A remarkable craft for disguise, since he hides in an obvious place. He is more cunning than we give him credit for." Holmes' eyes, which glittered while he spoke, suddenly dulled a little as he turned pale again.

"Lestrade, help me get his coat off," Watson urged.

"_Off?_ It's a cold night. I doubt we should."

"Do it." Watson ordered, helping Lestrade in removing the capecoat. He tied the Inverness by its sleeves tightly around Holmes' side. The detective gasped in pain, his drowsiness chased away by the sharp ache. Watson took off his own coat, shivering in the night air and realizing Lestrade was right.

"Holmes! Stay awake!" Watson commanded firmly, watching Holmes shake his head slowly in trying to wake himself up. "The cab _must_ be coming," he reassured them all, though he was most reassuring himself. He covered Holmes with his own coat, both of them shivering now. Watson swore under his breath at Holmes' first signs of shock, possibly hypothermia. He had to do something; he couldn't rely on the cab's warmth to help Holmes if the cab wouldn't arrive.

Watson scooped Holmes up into a sitting position, hugging him tightly to share their body heat. The jostling, minimal though it was, made Holmes painfully aware of the gash in his side as he grunted through gritted teeth. Watson shushed him with a whisper, rubbing Holmes' back soothingly. "Stay with me, Holmes. Just stay awake." Watson pleaded, sounding downright desperate. "Just a little while until we're back at Baker Street. Hold on."

"They've found a cab," Lestrade informed and Watson shook Holmes gently into full alertness.

"Lestrade, help me get him into the cab?" Watson asked. "Gently now," he advised as Lestrade nodded and together they lifted Holmes, who moaned wearily. "Easy, Holmes, we're almost there," Watson assured his friend as they nestled him into the cab.

"You're _sure_ about the hospital?" Lestrade wondered. "He looks downright awful."

"Keeping him involved in the case will help." Watson informed as Holmes leaned against his shoulder, losing the battle against sleepiness. "Send any new details by telegram. The sooner the better." Both men nodded in agreement and Watson closed the cab door, immediately tending to Holmes as he directed the driver to Baker Street.

As the quiet resumed on that darkened London sidestreet, Watson was oblivious to what he inadvertently revealed while Lestrade tried to make sense of the implications he saw.


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N:** Yes, folks, **THIS IS THE SEX CHAPTER**. But before you opt out, realize that_

_A) that's not all there is to this chapter (please, I DO have depth as a writer)_

_B) this is somewhat of an experiment in my own semi-erotic **NOT EXPLICITLY SO** writing. I don't like really perverse writing. Let's keep it refined.  
_

_C) This is a slash fic. If you didn't know it was coming... well, it was really elementary, wasn't it?_

* * *

Holmes slept fitfully through the night but peacefully the next day, under repeat dosages of morphine from Watson and a house call for stitches by Anstruther, who owed Watson a favor. It was night when Holmes awoke, Watson's hand holding his as the doctor read a book in the bedside chair.

"Watson," Holmes was surprised at how weak he sounded. "The pain is gone."

"Stitches and morphine. The ache will return. I informed Lestrade to tell you any news of the case by telegram while you recover." Watson concluded as he closed the book. "The wound was deep, Holmes. You could have easily been killed from the blood loss. We're lucky you don't have hypothermia, and even luckier if you don't catch pneumonia." Watson shook his head worriedly.

"You have already taken excellent care of me, Watson. What would I do without such a thorough doctor?" Holmes intertwined his fingers in Watson's grasp and the doctor smiled.

"What indeed, Holmes." Watson frowned when he saw Holmes shivering under all the blankets. He moved to the bed and eased Holmes up so as to sit behind him. He wrapped his arms around Holmes' chest and leaned back, relieved when Holmes leaned into him instinctively.

"I did this for you when you were slipping in and out of consciousness on the street. I had to hold you closely to share our warmth," Watson told him. "You were shivering so badly and the cab was taking too long."

"You cared," Holmes assessed.

"I did. I do. It's why I'm warming you now." Watson snuggled in closer.

Holmes sat forward a bit and turned halfway around to face Watson, wordlessly starting to unbutton the doctor's shirt.

"Holmes…" Watson warned.

"Skin-on-skin contact will keep us warmer. I observe you've started shivering as well." Holmes smirked in his triumph as Watson did not deny the fact.

Holmes took his time to unbutton Watson's shirt, keeping his kiss on Watson's lips gentle and restrained. His hands trailed over Watson's shoulders as he removed the shirt and Watson shrugged out of it to help him. Holmes had waited so long for this to happen but allowed Watson to set the pace.

Watson's kiss was hesitant at first, his hands resting lightly on Holmes' hips just below the bandage wrapped around his middle. When Holmes' tongue darted into his mouth and his grip tightened, Holmes' hands only pressed on his back to push them both closer.

Their tongues battled for a while: Holmes wanted dominance but Watson always evaded it. Watson smirked as he ran his hands messily through Holmes' dark hair, knowing he really had the upper hand in refusing to give Holmes what was _so_ desperately craved for. Every so often Holmes' hips would buck partly against the mattress and partly at his own growing erection. They were both breathing heavier, taking deep breaths through their noses while they kissed to keep their control. When Holmes moved to nibble Watson's earlobe, blowing a somewhat shaky breath over his neck, Watson shuddered with delight and went completely hard. He grabbed Holmes' ass tightly with both hands, feeling him involuntarily buck again. Their pants wouldn't last much longer.

Holmes had just started to move his kissing to Watson's collarbone, fingertips gently rubbing over his nipples, when the door flung open and Lestrade grinned like a madman. Watson thought to throw Holmes off him, but he was unable to with the delicate stitches in Holmes' side. He'd surely rip them open and cause the detective incredible pain. Instead he sat rigidly while Lestrade stared wide-eyed, his grin long since disappeared.

Holmes sensed the difference and looked up to see Watson's face drain instantly of color. He looked over his shoulder to the doorway, looking like a snarling and trapped animal for a brief moment. His fears of being caught were realized in stark truth, for Lestrade still stared in shock at both of them.

"I was coming to inform you of the case. I had some very good news." Lestrade said blankly. "I can't remember it now."

"Lestrade," Holmes began a bit shakily as he turned around on the bed to face the Inspector. "The _case_ is what matters," Holmes tried to stay focused.

"How can we talk about that after what I just saw?" Lestrade transformed back into his stoic exterior, adopting his usual officer's demeanor.

Holmes stood with a wince, the euphoria of Watson now forgotten and his painful stitches making themselves known. "I expect you, and all of us, to be _professional_ above all else."

Lestrade nodded slowly, remaining silent. Holmes fished a fresh button-down shirt out of a drawer, quickly dressing. "Now," he began as he held out his wrist for Watson's help with one cuff. "_Work_ is what we must focus on at this moment, Lestrade, in order to prevent many more deaths." Holmes fastened his other cuff easily now that his hand was free, but before he could finish with the button Lestrade handcuffed him.

"Lestrade!" Watson exclaimed. "Now just hold on!"

"Get your hand off me, _Inspector_." Holmes snarled the word, narrowing his eyes at his sudden captor.

"Be _professional_, Holmes. You said it yourself." Lestrade's words equally matched Holmes' venom.

"Lestrade, be reasonable! This is unnecessary!" Watson argued, rising anger altering his tone. "He's done nothing wrong! He _helps_ you whenever you ask!"

Lestrade pointedly ignored him, spinning Holmes around to face the wall and cuffing the detective's other hand.

"Lestrade, you can't-" Holmes hissed.

"You _know_ I have to." Lestrade said dutifully, if a little saddened by the fact. "I'm taking you in."

"You'll be taking me as well, Lestrade." Watson finally stood, retrieving his shirt from the floor.

"Watson, you have a reputation to uphold and a thriving medical practice." Holmes stated as a warning.

"What the deuce does it matter if you're locked away?" Watson questioned.

"Under the law, Dr. Watson, you are innocent. You did not initiate the act." Lestrade informed clinically.

"Coward!" Watson roared, lunging at Lestrade, Holmes acting as the physical barrier between them. He grunted in pain when Watson slammed into him forcefully, jutting his hips so his injured side would be free of contact. Watson's hands stopped struggling to throttle Lestrade's neck and settled to rest on the back of Holmes' neck instead, their foreheads touching.

"Don't taunt him, Watson. You must stay safely out of arrest." Holmes concluded dejectedly, eyes studying the floorboards.

"And what of you, about to be hauled to prison?" Watson retorted. "He cannot get away with this!"

"It is what I have to do, Dr. Watson," Lestrade shrugged. "I don't agree with it."

"Go to blazes, Lestrade!" Watson shouted at him.

"Leave him, doctor," Holmes sighed. "We are _all_ bound by society's rules." Watson felt himself shatter to pieces when he saw a tear fall down Holmes' cheek. The detective still refused to look anywhere but down at the floor. "You know what this means, Watson."

"I will get you _out_ before that happens." Watson promised.

"Time to go, Holmes," Lestrade tightened his grip on the handcuffs and putting his other hand on Holmes' shoulder. "Or need I remind you that you are under arrest?"

"I love you, Watson." Holmes admitted quietly, finally looking up. His eyes glistened with unshed tears and obvious terror. When Watson went to kiss him, he turned his cheek so as to save his friend from a similar arrest.

"_Now_, Holmes!" Lestrade urged with a pull backward before shoving the detective toward the doorway. "We need to schedule a trial with Her Majesty."

Once Watson heard the door of 221 Baker Street slam shut, he broke down completely, sitting and sobbing on the edge of Holmes' bed. Queen Victoria publicly made homosexuality a crime, punished only by hanging. If Holmes were to see her about his accusation…

Neither of them stood any possible chance.


	8. Chapter 8

SHERLOCK HOLMES IN PRISON! ACCUSED OF HOMOSEXUALITY! TRIAL WITH THE QUEEN TO BE ARRANGED!

"What an absurdly long headline. Now I'm glad they wasted the ink." Holmes looked disgustedly at the paper thrown to the floor just outside the bars of his prison cell.

"Holmes, this is serious."

"Of course it is, Inspector," Holmes retorted, his disdain now aimed entirely at Lestrade. "You should know how serious it all is, since you were the one to put me here."

"How many times must I explain to you that I was just as trapped as you were and equally as panicked?" Lestrade huffed.

"Until your fellow officers believe you back at the Yard." Holmes replied casually, leaning back to sit against the stone wall. "I will most likely be hanged before that happens, especially since you will give Her Majesty your explicit permission to do so." Holmes shrugged while Lestrade blew out a breath and looked away. "Merely your duty, was it not, Inspector?"

"You will never understand," Lestrade realized, shaking his head.

"Why should I, when you will never understand your own betrayal of me?" Holmes spat back.

"I am trying to help you!" Lestrade roared.

"Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!" The young man and the young woman from the night outside the bar came running down the corridor. Lestrade moved aside to let them step up to the cell door.

"What happened?" Holmes questioned, eager to forget his current predicament and return to the facts of the case as he left them.

"You can't let them do this to you!" Molly cried out frantically. "You saved Gideon and me that night!"

"It should have been us," Gideon shook his head. "We should be the ones sentenced to death."

"This is not a result of the night in the alleyway," Holmes informed. "I am here because of what I've done."

"You're innocent, Mr. Holmes! I know it!" Molly urged, finally glancing over to Inspector Lestrade and pleading with him. "Inspector, please, you must do something!"

"Molly, I do apologize, but Mr. Holmes must fill his sentence." Lestrade shrugged helplessly.

"But you know the penalty is death!" Molly shouted.

"You have the power to stop this, Inspector," Gideon growled. "Why won't you!?"

"Molly, Gideon," Holmes interrupted. "You must not blame Inspector Lestrade for performing his duties. We are all bound by rules and consequences."

"He can stop this and you won't fight him long enough to do so?" Gideon challenged Holmes.

"I know Inspector Lestrade to be a most trusted colleague of mine, completely convinced of his every action. I cannot call his expert judgment into question." Holmes met Lestrade's gaze and Lestrade left, exasperated with the detective yet shoulders sagging under the weight of his own guilt.

"Mr. Holmes, we are very worried about what may happen to you. After what you did in the alley that night you have several admirers from the pub." Gideon informed.

"Tell us how to help you," Molly pleaded. "Tell us what to do to get you out of here."

"I am more concerned of what will happen when I cannot." Holmes admitted, his thoughts turning exclusively to Watson. He really was lost without his Boswell, especially now. "There are a few excellent stories detailing my career. I'm sure Dr. Watson would appreciate your help tying up the loose ends."

"You can't give up! You just can't!" Molly shouted, tears filling her eyes.

"What hope is there for us if you do?" Gideon hissed.

A guard came to unlock Holmes' cell, roughly handling him as if he were a hardened criminal. Holmes' expression remained stoic despite the handcuffs digging sharply into his flesh from the guard's grip.

"You've both learned a valuable lesson from what's happened. You'll have a much easier time if you both hide who you really are. It's not right and it's not fair, but sometimes justice fails." That, Holmes realized, was the biggest insult and the cruelest truth. His own hurt and shame at such advice was reflected in the youths' eyes, questioning their hero with every glance. "Marry each other. You will be miserable but at least you'll both be safe. Maybe someday being in love, our kind of love, won't be illegal."

For his advising, Holmes was smacked sharply across the face with a billy club, causing Molly to lunge with a shriek of anger and Gideon to firmly hold her back. Holmes felt the warm trickle of blood mixed with a stinging ache, and decided to stay silent until his audience with the Queen. It was his wisest move yet since being imprisoned, as the guard mocked him with anti-gay slurs the whole way. Fighting back would surely mean a rougher beating, and he didn't expect much better from Her Majesty.


	9. Chapter 9

He was marched all too quickly down the halls of Buckingham Palace, struggling to keep up with the guards. He would have stopped trying to walk with them altogether, and instead be pushed by their collective momentum, were they not all armed with rifles ready to convince him to keep moving.

Holmes glanced up for a moment in entering Her Majesty's courtroom, ignoring the splendor of the furnishing and of the Queen herself, perched on a throne like an Imperial judge. He locked eyes with Lestrade, wearing a medal on his chest and standing to the right of the Queen. He'd been her lapdog this whole time, Holmes realized in fury.

"Show your respect!" a guard commanded, kicking him in the backs of the knees so he crumpled to the floor.

"Traitor, Lestrade! An _expert_ on betrayal." Holmes growled, dropping his head and staying silent once he felt the barrel of a rifle at the base of his skull.

"Inspector Lestrade, release our prisoner. We are to be civil in these proceedings. Guards, hold steady. We do this to ensure your safety. Mr. Holmes. You will not provoke us once your wrists are free." Queen Victoria instructed.

Holmes stayed subdued and sullen as Lestrade came over with a key to the cuffs, shaking off the Inspector's hand on his shoulder once he was free. For this he received a sharp poke between the shoulder blades, which forced him to shoot up straight at attention while still kneeling.

"Mr. Holmes, we strongly suggest you behave, else you find yourself right back in those handcuffs. As to the trial, we are an attentive jury and a fair judge." At this Lestrade nodded, and Holmes scowled. "What have you been accused of, Mr. Holmes?"

"Homosexuality, madam." He muttered in reply, the echo of his voice off the polished marble floor seeming to amplify his fear of his trial with her.

"A serious crime to Queen and country," Victoria assessed. "We must deliberate. All depart, except Mr. Holmes." At this instruction, the guards looked quizzically at each other, unsure if they ought to obey such an order.

"Her Majesty Queen Victoria orders you to leave." Lestrade commanded the guards as he would his rookie officers. "_Now_."

Queen Victoria watched them file out before settling back in her chair and closing her eyes. "It means you as well, Inspector Lestrade. Take your leave so that we may speak to Mr. Holmes privately."

Lestrade looked slightly taken aback at the request, glancing at Holmes for some kind of reaction. Holmes recognized the look instantly, and Lestrade did not at all appear hurt by the request. He was _afraid_ of its outcome, Holmes realized as Lestrade murmured agreement and quietly left the room. Holmes was on the threshold of unknown territory and completely alone with the Queen, awaiting her decision as to his fate. He felt himself break out into a cold sweat.

"Come sit, Mr. Holmes. There are no guards forcing you to kneel now." The Queen motioned to a chair beside her and he shuffled to it, keeping his head bent and eyes lowered to the floor. "Such interesting behavior," she mused, eyes now open and studying him. "You are not at all the sleuth the stories of the Strand make you seem." Victoria smirked.

"I am usually more valiant when facing my own death," Holmes admitted weakly. "And much more confident, as a rule."

"And why not now?" She asked. "You believe you are guilty of something." She watched as he nodded slowly. "Love is not a crime, Mr. Holmes. I do hope you have observed that fact."

Holmes looked at her, incredulous. "Then why have you outlawed it? Why do I await _your_ verdict on my kind of love, while my life hangs in the balance, if this well-known fact is really such a trifle?" He found himself quite irritated at her glibness when he was faced with such high stakes.

"That is quite selfish of you, Mr. Holmes, to imagine that it is only _your_ kind of love at all." Victoria pursed her lips, smirking again. "Surely love, by its very definition, must be shared. It is hardly fair for _you_ and _only you_ to claim ownership."

Holmes stared at her, trying to read into her features and analyze past the impenetrable smirk. She nodded solemnly, satisfied with his blatant observations of her, and leaned back easily in her chair. "Tell me of your cases, Mr. Holmes. The ones I've read about that Dr. Watson has so excellently written."

Holmes smiled, "Watson tends to embellish facts to interest his readers, madam."

"And he does quite a good job of it. But I want to know the real stories. The _real_ adventures behind all the publishing. What makes you and Dr. Watson the best detectives in London?"

"The _best_, Your Majesty?" Holmes was flattered, certainly.

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes. Come now, Dr. Watson must have taught _you_ how to embellish, hm?" Victoria arched an eyebrow.

"Watson and I… have faced danger and death many times. We've been kidnapped, hunted down, and shot at even more than his stories would tell you. Every time we come out on top of it all, and I always wonder how we manage to do it. I solve the case, and he is there to tell my story, but we've both lived the adventures together. From the very beginning, he has always been there." Holmes' eyes grew more and more faraway as he spoke of his partnership with Watson, a welcomed change that Victoria's own eyes sparkled at.

"And?" Victoria asked.

"And…. it wouldn't be _right_ any other way." Holmes shrugged simply. "That much is obvious."

Victoria nodded, her tiara glittering atop her head as she took in his story. "I think, Mr. Holmes, that Inspector Lestrade was truly doing his job as an officer in reporting what he saw you do. I think he was doing his duty as a _friend_ when he only brought _you_ in, instead of you and Dr. Watson both."

"He said I initiated the act and so I was the only one who was guilty." Holmes reported, receiving a deadpan look from Her Majesty. "I was lied to." He realized, surprisingly relieved that Watson would not be going down with him, and in that moment realizing Lestrade really _was_ defending them both.

"I further believe, Mr. Holmes, that you are truly an innocent man. I am willing to drop the death sentence." Holmes was stunned speechless. "Love is not a crime, Mr. Holmes, as I told you before. And those men who have died accused of homosexuality before you have not realized that fact. They were put to death not for who they loved or what they did in their private lives, but because they were ashamed of who they were."

"With all respect, Your Majesty, you have killed dozens of innocent men." Holmes assessed.

"As have you, detective. But we have both killed in the name of justice. We have both defended what is right. We have both been loyal to ourselves and our beliefs," Victoria looked at him directly, wanting his honest answer, "have we not, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes hesitated at first but agreed. "Yes, you are right."

"Yes, indeed we have." Victoria nodded. "We have defended our beliefs about what is right and wrong. So much so that we have dedicated our lives to it: you for the good of London's people, and I for the good of the country of England. No one can judge us for being ourselves. Neither our neighbors on the street nor Providence above. We have loved freely, Mr. Holmes, but honestly too."

"_We_, Your Majesty?" Holmes arched an eyebrow.

"It is not a crime against nature, Mr. Holmes." Victoria continued. "Nor God, nor man, nor Queen and country. It _becomes_ a crime when the individual in question cannot be convinced of the truth. Life is generally much happier the honest way." She smiled, assured of her advice.

"But I… Watson and I… we cannot…" Holmes couldn't imagine a foreseeable future living honestly.

"Just know, Mr. Holmes, that you are safe under the law. I shall have to imprison you for a short while, but you shall not be put to death." Victoria ruled her verdict. "Live anew with Dr. John Watson, or live as you always have. Make sure that both of you are satisfied in your life together."

"Then I am a free man?" Holmes inquired carefully.

"Free to live and love, Mr. Holmes. But imprisoned for the next month. That sentence I must be firm on." Victoria was unwavering even despite Holmes' questioning glance. "While you know who you are, and should not face punishment, your imprisonment will be to save the career of Inspector Lestrade. We must validate his arrest." Victoria looked over at Holmes. "Sometimes living honestly means sacrificing for others as well."

Holmes rose from his chair to kiss the ring on the proffered hand of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. She had been generous and understanding with him, and he was not only grateful but owed her immensely for her compassion to him. "_Victoria Regina_," he murmured as he kissed her ring first, then the back of her hand. He stood up again, about to thank her fully for all she had done, when he had a flash of lightheadedness, followed by a brief but definite dimming of his vision.

"Mr. Holmes, I certainly hope…" Her Majesty began, but he couldn't hear her words. He did his best to keep the swirling double vision images of her face at bay. After an eternity of searching, he finally saw it: blood pooled on one side and dripping down the legs of the chair he'd been sitting on. He brought one hand to his injured side and held it up to find it covered in his own blood, his shirt and waistcoat soaked through. The knife wound had re-opened, pouring blood, and he could read lips just well enough to see Queen Victoria shouting for a doctor before he fainted, falling hard and fast to the floor.


	10. Chapter 10

"Don't move," was the first thing Holmes heard as he awoke in the Royal Hospital of Buckingham Palace. "You hit your head when you fell. Nearly cracked open your skull on Her Majesty's floor."

"Watson?" he managed groggily, opening his eyes despite the pain radiating from his head and the bandage obscuring part of his vision. He smiled at the sight of Watson's hand resting on his, deducing they must be alone for him to be so forthright. He stupidly tried to sit up to see better, falling back into a laying position with a groan when the pain sharpened, throbbed, and made him dizzy all at once.

"Lie down, Holmes." Watson sighed worriedly. "You nearly bled to death from that scoundrel's knife, then once again on Her Majesty's chair, and now a head injury on top of it all. Honestly, Holmes…"

"Had I not taken a tumble to the floor, you would not have been allowed to see me, dear Watson." Holmes smiled.

"You are lucky the Queen demanded to have Sherlock Holmes' personal physician as his primary caretaker." Watson noticed Holmes wincing from the pain and began unwrapping the bandage around his head in order to re-wrap it a bit more loosely.

"It does not surprise me. Her Majesty Queen Victoria is much more obliging than it would seem, Watson. She is not sentencing me to death for what I have done."

"What _we_ have done. You have no idea how much the guilt has consumed me since Lestrade arrested you. I've been positively ill." Watson huffed.

"Hence why I criticize your sentimentality, Watson." Holmes smirked, teasing him good-naturedly.

"And also why I am currently here, nursing you." Watson arched an eyebrow, tucking the loose end of the bandage underneath the rest. "She is letting you go?"

"Not completely. I am to be imprisoned for the sake of Inspector Lestrade's career." Holmes heard Watson snort in disgust and eased back against the pillows, careful of his head. "Now, now, Watson, we must not be too upset with Lestrade. He could have arrested you as well and had us _both_ receiving trials with Her Majesty."

"I would have preferred it were he not a coward."

"Now is not the time for heroism, doctor. Your army days are long past." Holmes rested his hand atop Watson's, feeling his friend instantly relax at the touch. "The Queen is offering us a gift in saving me from the hangman's noose. What's more, and you are bound to secrecy on this, my dear friend," he squeezed Watson's hand briefly, "Her Majesty accepts our way of life and encourages our kind of love for one another."

"You must be joking!" Watson was shocked, but smiling all the while.

"I am quite serious. I suspect she may herself practice an affection towards women, though I cannot be sure. At any rate, Watson, you and I are free to love one another, safe from punishment so long as we are discreet." He felt Watson's hand gently lift the bandages away from his eyes so he could see fully, just in time for Watson to kiss him. "Perhaps a bit more discreet than that," Holmes advised with a smile once they broke apart.

"We were alone. I was allowed to indulge, Holmes, just this once." Watson smiled, standing to attention once he saw the Queen entering with her handmaidens.

"Sit, Dr. Watson." Her Majesty commanded as she came to a stop at the foot of Holmes' bed. "We are grateful you have come to aid us so quickly. We were most worried about Mr. Holmes. He is a national treasure to all of England."

"Thank you, madam." Both Holmes and Watson answered together.

"He is recovering?" Queen Victoria ensured.

"Well enough, Your Majesty. Holmes is one of my most stubborn patients." Watson admitted with a small smile. "Thank you for your kindness in allowing him to recover here in the palace."

"It is only what we must do for our citizens. We are happy to hear of his progress. The Metropolitan Police are hard at work to close the case you and Mr. Holmes have been so diligently working on. That was quite the nasty gash…" Queen Victoria curled her lips slightly in remembering the blood pouring from Holmes' side.

"The stitches will stay in place this time, Your Grace, even if I have to handcuff him to the bed so he will stay put." Watson snuck an accusatory glance at Holmes, who smiled sweetly, and Queen Victoria laughed.

"The detective in handcuffs…" she mused.

"This time for my own good, Your Majesty." Holmes quipped.

"Indeed." She smiled graciously. "Rest, Mr. Holmes. Please guard him well, Dr. Watson. I have ensured him a private cell at the Tower, and to endure a month's imprisonment, he must recover fully."

"Your Majesty, is there no way to-" Watson was interrupted by a sharp pinch on his forearm from Holmes, yelping at the discomfort while Holmes spoke for him instead.

"_Thank you_, Your Majesty Queen Victoria, for your generosity in lessening my sentence. Dr. Watson is only looking out for my well-being." Holmes amended.

"As well he should, Mr. Holmes, as we discussed before. You may visit him once a week, Dr. Watson, to be arranged with the Tower guards. We are not inhumane in our dealings of justice." Queen Victoria and Holmes shared a smile. "It is no crime to love... am I right, Mr. Holmes?"

"You are indeed, Your Grace." Holmes nodded with a small smile, his finger gently brushing against Watson's hand. "_Gratia plena_."

"Come, ladies." Queen Victoria left with a sweep of her hand and a flourish of maidens, unknowingly dropping a fan to the floor in the process. A petite brunette bent down and handed it back to the Queen with a small nod, bowing her head. The Queen delicately lifted the girl's chin to tilt her head up so they locked eyes for a brief moment before Her Majesty tapped the girl on one shoulder gently with the fan.

"Molly?" Watson whispered in disbelief while he and Holmes stared at the girl, now so transformed by Victoria's elegance. Molly looked over at them with a smile, winking wordlessly before she left.

"Our love most certainly is not a crime, Watson." Holmes assessed after the group had gone. "Not ours or Her Majesty's." Watson smiled and bent down to kiss Holmes again.


	11. Epilogue

Holmes' month of imprisonment was hell for both he and Watson, and every time they met in those weeks Watson increasingly worried that Holmes looked more and more fragile. Every week, Holmes smiled and casually waved Watson's concern away, insisting he was perfectly fine. And every week, Watson returned again to Baker Street never once feeling truly relieved.

Once Holmes was released, Watson realized his fears were all justified once he saw the bruises covering Holmes' body, all of them a deep and ugly purple and most fairly large in size. When questioned, Holmes gave a wry smile and told Watson it was all a part of prison's initiation ceremony. Watson, confused, dropped the subject entirely in order to think it over for himself. Life returned to normal for them: Watson wrote up for the Strand _all_ of Holmes' brilliantly solved cases. They never spoke of the night they were caught, but they both secretly smiled in recalling it, and would find themselves often sharing a bed whenever nightmares plagued either one or the other.

On a night at a seedy pub during a stakeout, Watson endured the overheard torments of the local drunks mocking Sherlock Holmes as immoral, bastardized, and foppish from the paper's scandalous headlines during the weeks before. Holmes, sitting beside him, was so immersed in studying their target that he paid no mind, but Watson fumed when he heard them _both_ being referred to as a bundle of fags.* He strode over to deftly knock the blackguard off his stool and to the ground, black-eyed and bloody-nosed but not unconscious. Watson then dragged the disguised Holmes by the wrist to promptly exit the bar, all the while leaving stunned patrons in his wordless wake.

"Watson, we could have had our suspect _tonight_ had you not-"

"Holmes," Watson's tone was dark and serious enough to stop Holmes mid-sentence. "Was _that_ what your bruises were about?"

Holmes sighed, eyes flashing up to Watson guiltily, and nodded. "The riffraff here at the pub are polite compared to my cellmates. But now _you've_ gotten yourself into a fine mess, my dear friend."

"We're still in disguise. No one will be able to identify me." Watson took Holmes to the corner and hailed a cab, instructing the driver before Holmes could. As they rode along, Holmes suddenly glanced over at Watson, momentarily perplexed. "A _left_ would have taken us to Baker Street, Watson."

"Why go home when we can still enjoy our evening?" Watson suggested with a smile as they rode straight on further still and stopped in front of the pub in that fateful alley where Holmes' blood was spilled in the struggle a month before.

"Watson, are you _completely_ positive on this?"

"Come along, Holmes."

Perhaps it was the warmth of the ale in their bellies later that night or the glow of the lamplight illuminating the fog, but their shared kiss on that street corner felt so wonderfully romantic that Holmes forgot every fear he ever had about loving his best friend, and Watson welcomed the chance to embark on yet another adventure with the great detective.

* * *

_A/N: *from the 16th century tradition of witch-burning, where a pile of kindle was referred to as a "bundle of fags," the later inspiration for the homophobic slur and the very REAL practice of burning homosexuals alive at the stake._

_On a much lighter note, this was the final chapter. Hope you had as much fun as I did! **~DZ~**_


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